


Raspberry Tea

by petit_moineau



Series: Partout [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petit_moineau/pseuds/petit_moineau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a seamless and well-practiced arrangement, like a broken-in pair of favorite shoes.  Every time Enjolras came over, there was tea and toast with jam. “Grantaire’s drinking again.”  It wasn’t a question, and Enjolras’ exhausted sigh was all the answer she needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raspberry Tea

There was a knock on the door just as Éponine fluffed the towel over her shower-fresh hair. “Hang on,” she yelled, doing up the buttons on her shirt. She jumped over a misplaced stack of books and the sleeping cat in the hallway and wrenched the sticky door open with a grunt. Enjolras stepped in, dripping rain and looking exhausted. “Can I come in?” 

She laughed. “You just did, didn’t you? Try not to drip on my paper; it’s on the table. Can you look over it for me? I’ll make tea and toast.” It was a seamless and well-practiced arrangement, like a broken-in pair of favorite shoes. Every time Enjolras came over, there was tea and toast with jam. While Éponine frustratedly punched the starter on the gas range and pulled mugs off the hooks by the sink, Enjolras scooted the stack of books off the couch. An impossibly heavy book clattered to the threadbare rug with a dull thud.

“It’s cold in here,” he said, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch.

“Mmm,” she answered, yanking the kettle off the burner, “there’s something wrong with the heat.”

“It’s January!”

She laughed. “At least it’s not the power,” she waved to the dim lights. “Otherwise I’d be in real trouble.” She set the tea down in front of him and he drank gratefully, syrupy raspberry warming his insides. “So to what do I owe this pleasure? I mean, unless you came down here just to read about the Romantic influences in van Gogh’s watercolors.” She gracefully draped her long, legging-clad legs over his lap.

He smiled tiredly, rubbing his nose with one hand and resting his arms on her shins. “I just needed a place that’s quiet.”

She frowned, dipping her finger into the jam on her toast. “Grantaire’s drinking again.” It wasn’t a question, and Enjolras’ exhausted sigh was all the answer she needed.

“It’s not—“ he began.

“How bad?”

He groaned, pulling at his damp curls. “Not bad, at least not yet. His brother just got some award for that paper he published, and Old Père Grantaire called to remind him of his general uselessness. And that gallery declined his submission.” Éponine winced, knowing how hard he’d wanted that place in the art show. “It’s not his fault,” Enjolras continued, “they just ran out of room, and some donor was pulling some strings about a personal favor, you know how it is.”

She snorted. She was just an art history student who dabbled in art as a hobby, but she knew that, like everything else, it was all politics. The cat wandered over and butted the hand hanging off the couch, and she scratched his head. “What will you do if R doesn’t get his shit together?”

Enjolras didn’t answer right away. He looked over at her and smiled sadly. “How am I supposed to leave him? Maybe it would be easier if he drank constantly. But he always gets better, eventually.”

She nudged his leg with her foot. “Does that mean that if he, you know, ever did go on a constant bender, you’d leave?”

“He knows my feelings. As soon as alcohol becomes more important than his health or our relationship, I’ll leave, because that might be the only thing that sobers him up.” 

"I do have to say that I appreciate you," she said, studying the ceiling. 

"Why?"

"Because you don't come in here with this swashbuckling bullshit about how your love will save him and he should never, you know, _need_ alcohol because he has you now, or something."

He gave her a withering look. "Don't insult me. We both know that's the basest form of psychological manipulation. He took another long drag from the tea while Éponine licked jam off her fingers. The rain poured over the city so hard that the apartments across the alley were fuzzy. They spent the evening working on their respective papers, his on French peasant revolts of the 1800s and hers on van Gogh. She made two kettles of raspberry tea and he put Gershwin on the stereo. He braved the rain to get Greek takeout, insisting that he hadn’t really dried out from the first time. It also gave him an opportunity to call Grantaire.

Éponine and Enjolras abandoned their papers and flipped on a movie. She watched as his eyes dropped and head dropped against the back of the couch. “Did you call him?”

He nodded. “Told him I was staying at the library,” he mumbled sleepily.

“Which really means you’re asking if you can stay on my couch,” she laughed.

One eye opened sleepily. “Please? Just for tonight?” But there had been more than a few ‘just for tonights,’ and she kept a nest of blankets and squishy pillows behind the couch just for that purpose. Since she was the only one of their group without a roommate, she jokingly called her couch the Couch of Transiency, given how frequently someone other than her borrowed it. Enjolras always gave it a lot of use when Grantaire was drinking, because at least so far, it worked without fail that Grantaire would sober up if he thought Enjolras might actually leave. Not that Éponine would ever tell Enjolras this, but she thought that was an underhanded manipulation in its own way, but if Enjolras could tolerate social drinking on Grantaire's part (he could), and Grantaire could find some locus of control outside of Enjolras (he was working on it), well, it was none of her business.

Éponine pulled a few blankets over him as she eased him down. Clicking off the television and unplugging the lamp, she waved to him. “Night, Enj.”

He yawned hugely. “Thanks, Ép, you’re the best.”

She smirked in the dark. “Aren’t I just. Don’t mention it, honey.” In her tiny bedroom, she deliberated as she set her alarm, finally deciding maybe having an extremely early breakfast with Grantaire wouldn't be such a bad idea.

**Author's Note:**

> First in a drabble series called Partout, set in modern day (obviously) and in New York City. Éponine and Enjolras are students at Columbia University.


End file.
